


Ritardando

by My_Soul_and_Perfume



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's Grace is Useless, Other, Sarcastic Dean, Shy Dean, can't say the f word, sorry - Freeform, warnings in each chapter, yes you read that right Cas and Dean's relationship is OTHER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Soul_and_Perfume/pseuds/My_Soul_and_Perfume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds himself slowly succumbing to a mysterious illness of hallucinations and headaches, unaware that his symptoms would become much worse over time. When Sam calls him for help on a particularly strange case, his health takes a dangerous plummet, leaving him compromised and dangerous  not only to himself, but his family as well.</p><p>ri·tar·dan·do<br/>/ˌrētärˈdändō/<br/>Music</p><p>adverb & adjective</p><p>adverb: ritardando; adjective: ritardando; adverb: ritard</p><p>1. (especially as a direction) with a gradual decrease of tempo.</p><p>noun</p><p>1. a gradual decrease in tempo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to @Evangeleen74, who requested a Destiel fanfic. This chapter will be the first out of two or three, depending on how my week goes.
> 
> Also, this is an alternate universe where all of the drama after Alistair has stopped, as well as the apocalypse. Dean, Sam, and occasionally Castiel are still hunting crazy monsters and stuff. (I hope that made sense)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about:  
> -past torture  
> -depression  
> -verbal abuse

 

Hello Dean." With all of his time working alongside an angel and being familiar with his tricks, although enlightening, Dean has yet to be comfortable around his friend's behavior. A normal person, if they wanted to, could have actually _called_ to check up on him. But Castiel, the weirdo he is, prefers to use other methods that always leave the hunter jumping out of his skin.

       "Have you heard anything from Sam?" Dean covers up his flinch with a question, allowing his eyes to quickly glance toward Castiel before refocusing on the road again.

       The angel is silent for a few moments before speaking again, his tone prompting but his sentence emphasized. "Your brother was just on the phone with you, about one hour ago."

       "No he…."

_"…on my way to Oklahoma….A case in involving werewolves…need your help….Taff Motel…."_

       "Right." Dean loosens his grip on the steering wheel of his Impala, not realizing how tense he's gotten over the brief silence. He would be more concerned about the thought-stopping brain fart if Castiel's concerned gaze wasn't burning holes into his back. "Did you come to help out or something?"

       "I have some downtime." Castiel relaxes into the passenger's seat. Humans are prone to memory loss, he's heard; this is his first time witnessing the action. "Where is your destination?"

       "Uh, Taff Motel…Oklahoma. Sam said something about a case with werewolves." For some reason, only chunks of the overall picture can be recalled. Dean is certain that he and Sam have discussed this, face to face, details and all, but…. "Ugh, I'm too tired for this." He can't even remember where he's going, just that the car is moving-low on gas--at nine P.M., feeling drunk as hell, and fueled with a sorry excuse for a Twinkie left half eaten and shoved in the glove compartment.

       Oh yeah, and then there's Cas, who is currently sitting as stiff as a board in Dean's impala--without a seatbelt--and wearing that same old, constipated look he has goin' on pretty much all day long. Dean isn't sure if the reason is because Castiel is always thinking (of what, he doesn't know), or if the vessel he uses is chronically constipated. Or maybe Castiel doesn't have full range of facial expressions yet, so his body settles for a crinkle in his brow, dull brown eyes, and lips stretched into a thin line. Yeah, probably the latter.

       Dean shakes his head, wondering why his mind is so intent on figuring out The Science of Cas, when he _should be_ trying to recall details of the case. A quick phone call to Sam could easily give him a quick recap of the situation, but his habitual stubbornness outlaws good decision making.

       Castiel stares at Dean, taking note of his rough appearance; scruffy beard, bloodshot eyes, red nose, the bitter aftertaste of beer permeating Dean's car. "Your body is in need of rest, Dean. You look horrible."

       "Yeah? Thanks for the compliment."

       "Dean--"

       "Look, if you want to help, why don't you get me some food." A white, paper bag appears in Castiel's waiting hands instantly. Dean takes one hand off the steering wheel to grab it from him, inhaling cheese and beefy goodness. He rechecks the freeway to make sure nothing but open road is still there, with no unfortunate twists or turns to take away free time for him to eat. The impala rides on, nice and smooth, just like he wants. Dean pulls out the beefy goodness eagerly, like he hadn't eaten in days, and silently thanks Castiel for having it half-wrapped for his convenience. Halfway through eating the burger, Dean supposes he owes Cas an apology. You know. For acting all bitchy and stuff.

       He wipes his teeth clean of food before saying, "Look, I'm not in the best mood. I'm really tired, running on empty, and just--sorry. I'm sorry." Okay, not the best apology considering it was stock full of excuses, but Dean is running on empty with a headache as big as Gabriel's ego. So excuse him for not being all puppies and dog treats.

       Castiel is used to Dean's behavior though; always sympathetic, understanding, you could say. Dean has seen a lot things and experienced a lot of grief. If he's upset, there is always a reason. "Apology accepted. I take it Sam is still upset about--"

       "Yeah."

       "Ah," Castiel nods. "You two share a strong bond, unlike my brothers and I. You will be forgiven."

       "Sure, sure. I just can't stand the," Dean shoves a piece of pie in his mouth, moaning at the f-ing delicious taste of caramel and pecan, "that kicked puppy dog look he gets whenever he's upset. I don't even know how he does it, he just," a rough gulp, "does."

       Castiel hums. He has experienced Sammy's 'kicked puppy dog' look, as Dean calls it. As an angel who goes day by day without cracking a smile or displaying any emotion whatsoever, Sammuel can make Cas feel guilty in the blink of an eye when he widens his eyes, pouting for all it's worth. The feeling is unnerving….

       "I'm pretty sure you know what it's like. I mean, you have like eight-thousand brothers--"

       "Rough estimate."

       "So there's bound to be some tension once in a while, right?"

       "Yes. My brothers and I, we fight sometimes. Gabriel and his sense of humor can go too far, Raphael is very closed minded, Balthazar is lenient--"

       Dean snorts. "And what? You're like, the most perfect angel of the group? That's a load of crap Cas."

       "Of course not. According to you and Sammy, I am a 'stick in the mud'." He isn't sure what that means, but with all his experience with the Winchesters, Castiel can pick up the annoyance in their words and disappointed head shakes that could conclude as a playful insult.

 

       "Anyhow, it's just," The pie is suddenly unappealing in its plastic, square container; Dean chucks back in the bag, "Being a big brother to Sam, there's a lot of responsibility you know? Having him disappointed in me is like--" God, he can't even get the words out. And why is he talking about this with Cas anyway?

       "Dean?"

       The hunter sighs tiredly, slowing his Impala to a safe 45 miles per hour. The road before him speeds on anyway like fast credits rolling down a screen; it gets him dizzy and slightly nauseous. "Um. It's like, it's like seeing Dad. You know, the 'eyes' and that, that… _disappointment_." Laughing wryly at the end of his sentence, Dean feels an oncoming urge to drink all the way to Oklahoma; alcohol makes everything fuzzy. Almost unrecognizable and easier to deal with.

       He forgets the whole point of their conversation and quits talking completely, grateful of the fact that Cas never pries where his nose doesn't belong. It's useful and gratifying, however messed up that sounds.

     Castiel changes subject, "Will we be stopping at a motel soon?" He takes the bag from Dean's lap and discards it somewhere in the universe. "You look dead on your feet."

     "Again, thank you for the compliment. And yes, we're stopping. She needs a refill anyway."

       "I was not aware that inanimate objects could have a gender." Castiel looks at Dean curiously.

       "They don't. Some people just--it--I don't know how to explain this."

       "We are seven miles from the nearest motel. I am sure that in this time some sort of conclusion will come to mind." Dean just tilts his head, a grimace on his features and slight apprehension.

       He switches on the radio. "Right."

* * *

 

       Just as promised, a low class motel lay right off a sharp exit and complex--no stop light--intersection. Dean books a two-bed because Cas insists on staying with him the whole night. Why, Dean has no clue. But Castiel won't stop frowning at the alcohol and lack of actual food shoved in his bag.

       Castiel flies them into room number six--red flags everyone--once out of sight from the jolly old woman in the waiting room. Dean sways on his feet upon landing but Cas catches him before Dean can have a nice chat with the grainy, black carpet. He mutters his thanks and tosses the key out of sight out of mind, before dropping his duffel bag too and face planting onto the bed. Castiel just stares at Dean from his position by the door.

       "Go to sleep Cas," Dean slurs tiredly. The angel can be awkward sometimes, usually needing assistance with day to day human interaction. Usually it's Dean who helps him out, and he's got to admit, pushing the angel in the right direction while it should be the other way around, is kind of…nice.

       But right now it's just plain annoying and he _desperately_ wants to sleep off this goddamn headache.

     Obligingly, Castiel walks gracefully from the door to his temporary bed and lay on top of the covers just like Dean; his body is stiff and straight. Castiel just lay there, listening in on Dean's light snoring muffled by the covers. He and Dean have not spent quality time together in quite a while since spring, always being on Heaven's beck and call for maintenance. But as Castiel mentioned earlier, he has been let off the leash until further notice. And he has nothing better to do with his time than spend it with familiar people. More specifically, Dean.

       Dean: a brave and courageous hunter who has seen one too many deaths. A man who has shed liters upon liters of blood that is not his own, all for the sake of protecting those he loves. This is what Castiel admires about him and why his loyalty to the Winchesters will never be shaken in the future, so long as no one sabotages their relationship.

       Relationship.

       Castiel would like to have one with Dean. Exclusively. Long term. Forever.

       But Dean enjoys his time with busty, blonde and brunette women as far as his knowledge serves him. Castiel can only hope the odds are in his favor in the meantime. Because until then, Castiel will only offer his aid. He will let Dean come to him when the time is right.

       A choked gasp draws the angel's attention and he turns to look at Dean, who is sweating and flinching in place. Castiel remembers witnessing this before, remembers the same look of terror on Dean's face and not knowing what to do. But right now is different. Castiel is familiar enough with human behavior and their psychology to act out some sort of plan for certain situations.

     He slides off the twin bed, toward the right, and plants his feet in the space between the mattresses, separated by a lamp and dresser. One or two moments of consideration later, Castiel is cupping Dean's cheeky lightly and ridding whatever demons plague his sleep. The effect is immediate and Dean stops twitching, his brows no longer drawn together. Castiel is pleased to hear his heartbeat is a steady pace is well.

       Just as he backs off to lay back down, Dean shoots up in the middle of a scream and holds his head like it might fall from his clutches. Whatever he was suffering earlier is back in less than aminute, and steadily getting worse. "Dean," Castiel calls. But the hunter seems oblivious to him. He looks inside his mind to hear what he's thinking.

       _It feels like Alistair is in his head again,wreaking havoc, shoving nails through his ears, throwing acid in his eyes, pulling at each nerve so that he feels absolutely everything he does just to make him suffer. It hurts!_

       Castiel grabs jean clad shoulders firmly, chanting his name once more. "Dean. Wake up."

       But the hunter _is_ awake, he's just in pain. Dean manages to crack his eyes open minutely but finds nothing except a blurred silhouette. He snaps them closed, trying to make the black behind his eyes stop distorting every which way. Dean forces his body to slump forward, causing Castiel to embrace all of his weight, and nudges his head into the crook of Cas' neck. Castiel furrows his eyebrows, confused, until Dean grits out, "Use your damn powers." Castiel doesn't bat an eye as he floods him with grace, sighing when Dean stops crying in pain. His ragged breathing is the only sound in the room.

       "Number 6. I knew this room was bad luck."    


	2. Chapter 2

 "You've gotta be kidding me."

       "Aw balls. Really?"

       "This is very…awkward."

       "Okay. It's, it's too early for this. I'm going home."

* * *

 

Dean and Castiel have been on the road for only a few hours, and Castiel is already starting to get on his fairly frazzled nerves. He remembers--not very fondly--how Sam used to be the same way; bouncing in the seats, switching the radio station every few seconds, even sticking his shaggy head out the window to let his luscious locks whip with the current. To put it bluntly: Sam is hyper. Or, used to be, seeing as Stanford had smacked some air of responsibility into him. It never quite crossed Dean's mind that maybe angels, although pompous, are capable of making Dean want to drive himself and the Impala off a cliff and give him the same level of irritation he made sure to keep in check, once upon a time.

       His eye twitches.

       "Alright already! Look, can I get some quiet time please?" Dean interrupts, before Castiel can bring up a new topic. The two are about one more hour until they hit the nearest Oklahoma City limit, but still an thirty extra minutes from the designated motel.

       "Of course, Dean. I apologize." Castiel twiddles his thumbs nervously. He leans back into the seat, disregards the foul stench of manure and compost as endless acres of farmland speed by. "But,"

       "Ugh, Jesus Christ." Dean's groans. If he hears about the bible _one more time_ ….

       "How is your head?"

       "Fine."

       "What time is it?"

        Dean spares a glance at his watch. "Eight."

        "Pretty early to be on the road, right?"

        "Sure."

       "You didn't sleep much last night."

       "Mmhmm."

       "Do you feel okay?"

       "Yeah."

       "Dean--" The Impala skids to a stop, tires screeching curses and the hood dipping dangerously low to the ground. Dean waits until his ears stop screaming bloody murder, ignoring Castiel's concerned questions. He grips his hands on the steering wheel and says, "Get out. Fly, walk, run--I don't care. Get out Cas."

       "I don't know where to go--"

       "Tag my car then! _Just get out!_ " Dean has no idea where the sudden aggressiveness has come from, but Castiel's constant nagging and poking and prodding…it's--it's--annoying. Very. Annoying.

       Castiel sounds off with a flap of wings; Dean rides on.

* * *

 

      "So you're saying that there's something here attracting all the monsters?"

       "There must be. I mean, just look at the cases. Cows dropping dead, wolf attacks, people being in two places at once. This place is like a frickin' X Files hotspot." Dean holds up three fingers, highlighting the few examples.

       "So what could it be?" Sam tips back his beer. "Do you think there's some sort of gate in the city? Because so far, it looks like these monsters are popping up out of nowhere. I mean, look at the map. Kayla Jane: drained of blood in her home, two fang marks penetrating her jugular. Morice Harris: savagely torn apart out in the woods, his best friend with a chunk of flesh missing from his calf. He said he heard howling around midnight and the next thing he knew, he was crawling back to their trailer with no sign of Morice catching up. And--Dude, you listening?"

       "Huh?"

       "You just spaced out on me." Sam peers cautiously at his older brother, who is currently staring at the map splayed before them, decorated in red flags and sticky notes, like he has no idea what the guide means. Like it's something he's never seen before. "Do you see something?" he asks anyway.

       "Uh…" Black dots spreckle like ants invading a leaf and Dean is partially disoriented all suddenly. He blinks his forest green eyes quickly, trying to bat them away, but they just spread instead. "No, I got… I got nothin'."

       Blue, red, and yellow flash like strobe lights. Dean's heart grows a little colder, beats a smidge quicker.

       He looks at Sammy, jumping back in shock.

       Alistair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's pretty chill.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about:  
> -past torture

 

From that point, everything flows in slow motion; Dean considers his options.

       "Woah!" Sam jerks back just as the eye of a gun suddenly connects with his forehead. Dean breathes hard, fury curdling his blood. He pulls the safety off the gun slowly, hesitant for some reason, although he has the perfect shot. He has every reason to pull the trigger.

       "Dean," Sam swallows, surrenders his palms slowly, "Dean, what are you doing?"

       "How'd you get out?" They put Alistair's sorry ass back in Hell for sure, they saw the whole thing, saw the ground swallow him whole, felt the earth quake beneath their feet…. This shouldn't be possible.

       "Now, Dean. Let's not get hasty. Why don't you put the gun down and we can talk mono y mono--"

       " _Shut up! How did you get out?_ " Sam flinches back. What the Hell is Dean talking about? He licks his lips nervously and tries to keep his breathing calm. Is this how he'll die? By the hands of his own brother?

       _Cas, quit whatever you're doing right now. Get your ass back to the motel. Now._ A simple prayer is usually all it takes, but Sam stumbles over his words in his head, switching back and forth from answering Dean's questions and sending out a cry for help through telepathic messages he's not even sure the angel can hear. One second turns into two, two multiplying into four, the barrel of the gun quivering in a weakened grip, but still under enough pressure to leave a mark on Sam's forehead. Castiel should have arrived by now.

      "I should kill you. I can kill you right now." Dean mutters hysterically. He remembers all the pain and suffering he went through under Alistair's hands. Being hooked and chained, gagged, beaten, stabbed then burned--he swallows back a surge of bile. _The safety is off. Just kill him._ But he's breathing hard. The gun slips between his shaky fingers more than once, the stubbed grips on the neck as lubricated as the inside of his swelling throat. His limbs are trembling. "What are you doing to me?" _Why can't I shoot you?_

       As a swarm of black and white moths fly from Alistair's mouth, Dean swats at them helplessly. They nick and bite at his skin, like tiny drops of acid raining from all directions. "S-stop! Stop!" 

       "What? Cat got your tongue?" A rather large moth lashes it's spiked tongue around his wrist occupying the gun; Dean drops it with a curse.

       His hunter's knife is the next to be unsheathed, but it gets knocked out of his hand. Dean drops to the ground amidst the moths just as Alistair sweeps his legs from underneath him, sending him to the ground. The black and white moths blind him, nothing but bites and burns, a constant wave of claustrophobic mass that leaves Dean gasping for breath.

       Suddenly, everything goes red.

 

* * *

 

One week later, nobody has uttered a word about the incident, deciding to ignore to two large bruises decorating Dean's check and chin where Castiel had manhandled him. Instead, Sam, Dean, and their faithful angel, Castiel, have continued to work on the case nonstop, pulling more and more clues about the mysterious monster murders plaguing Oklahoma City.  Sam takes the case files home, Dean marks them on the map, talking with Bobby over the phone. Castiel makes trips round the city to pick up supplies that they need, such as food and water, or aspirin for Dean's increasing headaches. Eventually, even heavy duty sleeping syrup has to be purchased as well; Dean's been getting angrier, more irritable. Less hungry. Puking his guts up and then rejecting sustenance to replace the lost body fluids.

       By midweek, Dean has lost ten pounds and his hunting jacket no longer fits snuggly over his shoulders. Sam says he should stay in the motel, let him and Bobby figure everything out while Castiel keeps him company. Surprisingly, Dean hunter stands down.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about:  
> -fatal illness  
> -seizures  
> -lunatics

 

By Thursday, it's obvious that something is wrong with Dean.

       "He has a fever. I tried cooling him down with some rags; he's almost over 100 degrees, which, I am sure, is dangerous to the human body--"

       "Can't you just use your grace?" Sam tiredly interrupts.

       "I am afraid that human ailments are not my specialty, Sam. You...humans, are very fragile," he lies. Castiel is very fond of Dean, practically admires him; but their relationship, although friendly, tends to strain now and then between the secrets and lies that they suffer from on a daily basis. Dean will never be comfortable expressing himself to anyone; Castiel  will never be trusted to take care of him when he needs to be taken care of. But even so, there's more to the story than just an angel fighting for attention: Castiel is no doctor, not a healer at all, despite what the Winchester's have told him. He hurts people, sacrificed over 50,000 humans for the lives of two boys, have killed his own kind; he has more blood on his hands than anyone else. Hands that should never touch those that he loves with kindness and compassion. The thought of hurting Dean when he is simply, 'just trying to help' is too heart wrenching to think of. Even so, Castiel's hidden expertise of the human body wouldn't help their predicament now. Last week, when Dean attacked Sam, Castiel had to resort to measures where knocking him out was the only option, seeing as his grace wouldn't have any effect; he and Sam had to wrestle Dean to the ground, Castiel pulling two punches on him until Dean's stubborn pain tolerance let up and he passed out. But the point is, what Dean experienced might have been psychological, never mind physical. Castiel can conclude that his hallucinations were so powerful that even Dean's hunting skills flew out the window. He was taken down so quickly and _easily._ Very scary. And now, one week later, still brooding over the fact that Cas _hit Dean_ , he can't say that he has any suggestions. He has no experience treating mental ailments within the human body, nor is he fond of counseling or giving therapy.

       Dean's pained face melts beneath Castiel's stare. He is a broken faucet, sweating everywhere, through the hard, lumpy motel mattress. He and Sam sit side by side silently, the angel imitating a stiff board while the hunter straddles his seat. Castiel counts five breaths before Sam speaks up again. "So," he clears his throat as it comes out shaky, "what....What do we do? Your grace, i-it didn't _work._ Dean's losing weight Cas, he's burning up, the nightmares came back. We gave him medicine. Bobby doesn't know what's wrong with him. It looks like Dean is--" Sam's breath hitches before he can speak the last word, his stubborn resistance to the idea sending him to a painful memory. "He's getting sicker and it looks like there's no way to stop it."

       "You forget that Dean is a fighter Sam. He will pull through," is what Castiel replies with, though his words come out hollow and hopeless. It's strange for him to be sitting at the deathbed of his best friend, useless and unable to help for the first time in a long time. The atmosphere practically smells like fever and it shows on Dean's sickly grey skin. If the situation goes South, he could die and then....and then what? Go to Hell again? No, no, Castiel can't have that! He can't stand the feeling of being useless when God practically created him to watch over the human world. Although he was taught by other angels to never intervene with the insignificant beings below, Castiel shoved his nose in their business anyway. He watched and waited. He answered prayers. He slipped orphans and struggling mothers advice within their dreams of how they could fix problems and solve bad situations. So why is it now that the angel can't do anything? Why does Castiel hesitate when he knows the answer, can sense the solution to Dean's illness dangling in front of his face?

       Maybe...he's just scared.

_Is this what it felt like when they watched their father die?_

       "Yeah," Sam sighs. He adjusts his brother's blanket with a shaky hand; just below the chin. A memory of Dean in the hospital from when the three of them were hit by a car replays for a moment. He retracts his hand like it's been burned before covering the action by raking it through his hair instead; he hasn't cut it in two weeks. It's nearly to his shoulders now.

       Castiel frowns, a furrow in his brow as he tries to transition from watching Dean, to Sam's sudden comment. He feels foolish as he realizes that his thoughts were spoken aloud. "I am sorry. I did not mean to say those words. That was very inconsiderate of me."

        "No, no. It's fine. I mean, Dean and I, we were crushed when we found out that Dad died and we couldn't stop it. We," But John Winchester's death shouldn't be compared to Dean's ( _Dean's not gonna die. He can't!_ ) because their dad had a reason for leaving. His brother does not; there is absolutely no reason why Dean should look like this, act like this, _be_ like this. "I just don't understand. How did he get sick in the first place? This isn't your typical fever, Cas. It's something else." Sam pauses a moment. Castiel gives him time to think.

       "I noticed on the phone a couple weeks ago that Dean was acting different. I thought he was just tired or something, it didn't really raise any alarms in my head but...he sounded almost...distant? Um, tired....Disassociated! And then--and then last week, Dean and I were going over the case but he spaced out on me and the next thing I knew, he cocked a gun at my head, but, not the way he usually does it."

       "What do you mean?"

       "He was _slow_ drawing his gun. And Dean is never slow, especially when he thinks there's a demon in the room. And then, the next part I already told you. We tackled him easily enough that it was like all his training and instinct had went out the window." Sam is practically breathless after drawing all of this information. He's shaking his head and pacing from bed to window, both hands tucked in his sweatshirt pocket while ignoring Castiel's lost staring. Abruptly, he stops. Sam yanks his phone from the pocket of his jeans and dials a number. Castiel has no idea what he is thinking.

_"Y'hello!"_

       "Bobby, hey. Have you got anything?"

        On the other line, sitting at a termite bitten desk, overloaded with books and strays, sits the Winchester's immediate resource. He cradles the house phone between ear and shoulder as he looks through a book titled, The Supernatural, Undiagnosed Illnesses, as his boy chirps hopefully through the phone for an update, for progress, for a solution. Neither of these things which Bobby has. "How's your brother over there? Anything changed?"

_"Fine, and you dodged the question."_

       Bobby tosses his baseball cap somewhere within the clutter. "Look, Sam, I'm no doctor but maybe Dean should be in a hospital after all, I mean....There doesn't seem to be anything supernatural at all about this--"

_"There **is,** Bobby! I can feel it. We just have to dig a little deeper."_

       "Hey. I don't know what to tell ya."

_"He's dying Bobby, there has to be something."_

       Bobby breathes for a moment before tossing the book as well. He sits back in his chair. "Not even Castiel's grace is workin'?" That sounds fishy to him. He's seen the angel kick ass and heal it too, practically replace chucks of missing flesh from mutilated bodies and make things appear out of thin air. And all of a sudden, he can't get rid of a fever?

_"No! Nothing's working."_

       He supposes he could call a few resources, spread the word about what's happening within the Winchester's Brotherhood pact, but Bobby would rather keep this between himself and the boys. Otherwise, a shit ton of trouble could head in their direction. "Balls," he mutters. "Look, just keep an eye on Dean, I'll keep lookin'. But Sam--Sam," He waits until Sam quits babbling nonsense, "If you see Death, kick some ass."

       The line disconnects. Bobby goes back to researching.

* * *

 

Two days later, Dean wakes up. Rather painfully, he should say. Horrendous cramping in his gut, a vicious headache, extremely chaffed throat, and achy limbs. He wakes slowly, like coming back from a deep sleep on a lazy morning after having good sex, but he feels like he's gotten no sleep at all and is certain he didn't have sex , if the perfume-less sheet means anything.

* * *

 Pushing through the disorientation and pain and forgetting what happened to get better become Dean's two main concerns now that he's woken up from dream (nightmare) land. Being sick for so long has left him weak, vulnerable, and strangely out of place. 

        The weight comes back to him easily though, small meals at first and then bigger ones loaded with fruits and vegetables, wheat and diary, that have left the disgusting hollow of his stomach filled and full. Sam brings the meals on trays three times a day, never missing a beat when he asks for a snack in between. Per Dean's demand, they've even started working on the case again.

* * *

 On Saturday, Castiel decides to stay in the room with Dean for the day to help look over the case; the amount of murders have skyrocketed. "Bobby is meeting Sam at the city limit right now. He's booking a room at the motel. The more help, the better," he says.

       "So you two haven't found any connections? Are there any rogue angels that I should know about that have gotten their hands on powerful stuff?"

      "No."

      "Damn." Dean sighs. Unlike before, his mind is clear, focused, sharp; he sees the map and he sees the markers. No noticeable patterns. Then, of course, the victims; no relation to each other. The families are normal, no crazy psychos out to get them or a jealous aunt trying to get in anyone's pants. Not even the dogs look suspicious. Over 20 people have died, all random, some quicker than others, others cleaner. It's clear that these monsters are having one Hell of a frenzy, but....

        "Dean."

        "Hm?"

       "You're shaking."  The red, felt-tipped marker in Dean's hand stabs the map in short, sporadic, movements; he lets it slip from his fingers to the table. His wrist is throbbing.

        "What the Hell...." Three long, horizontal, red marks swell with a pulse. Castiel gapes at them in shock.

        "Dean," he starts cautiously, "Have you been--"

       "No." Dean traces them lightly with the tips of his fingers, instantly regretting it when a blinding white light flashes behind his eyes; it ignites a headache.

       Castiel is up and kneeling beside him within the millisecond. He cradles Dean's cheek with one hand, a wrist in the other; a ticking time bomb thumps beneath his thumb as he counts the seconds. Five, six, seven--at twelve, Dean's jerky twitches die down into nothing. The whites of his eyes fall back into proper place.

       "What are you starin' at?" he slurs, slapping away Castiel's prodding hands. He swallows thickly once, twice, before he's absolutely certain that he won't vomit everywhere.

       "You,"

       "Hand me that." Dean completely ignores Castiel's concerned look as he retrieves his phone from the table. "Yeah, Sammy?"

       " _We got something. Meet us at the park near Walgreens._ "

       Dean hangs up with an affirmative grunt. Finally, after not having absolutely any leads, it looks like Sam and Bobby have finally picked up on something. How, he isn't concerned with that now. All Dean knows is 'where' and 'when' and 'when' is right now. "We gotta go. Sam has a lead."

       Castiel rises the same time Dean snatches his gun from the table, two hunting knives, their spell book, and finally, his hunting jacket. Putting the items on replenishes the fire in Dean's blood, a refreshing boost from his mood prior to collapsing. Going outside is exactly what he needs to stretch the kinks from his body; nothin' like fresh air and daisies, right?

       "Where to?" Castiel asks once Dean is settled. The hunter latches onto his coat sleeve, speaks the vague coordinates of their destination. It takes a minute before Castiel places Sam and Bobby's accurate location.

* * *

"You've gotta be kidding me."

       "Aw balls. Really?"

       "This is very…awkward."

       "Okay. It's, it's too early for this. I'm going home."

       So, it turns out that the mysterious 'monster' murders were actually _crazypsychoticdelusionalsickdisgusting **human**_ murders.

       A human killed all those people.

       But you see, that's not even the crazy part. The crazy part, which had everyone blanche and groan, was catching the guy in his shady ass trailer, getting ready to dress up in a full blown werewolf suit, equipped with real fangs, real dog paws, and real wolf fur. The sewing machine, which he probably used to make his costumes, sits posh-ly on the bedside table. Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Castiel gawk around the room, finding a few other disturbing things; lipstick, wigs, women's dresses. And okay, Dean supposes that everyone has their own little kink, and he's not one to judge, but this guy even has waxy molds; holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth cut into it. He was _impersonating_ people too, which obviously shows how the victims were reported to be in two places at once.

       20 murders. Five 'wolf' killings. Ten impersonations. Five 'vampire' killings. A literal supernatural frenzy that had Dean and Sam crawling off the walls trying to figure it out.

       "Why?" Dean exclaims. The man, who looks alarmingly like Ebenezer Scrooge, sets down the fake wolf head with his _paws_ and shrugs. All four of them stand in a half circle around his bed. Sam has his eyebrows furrowed and Dean can only guess what he's is thinking. If the unclenching and clenching hand around his riffle has any significance, he can assume that his mind is going a mile a minute; maybe if his brother grew up to be a lawyer he could give some sort of defense for this lunatic with reasoning to his motivation. But then there's Bobby, and Dean is sure that the guy has seen crazy shit in his life. But this? This, he's not so sure. He has that ' _what the Hell is wrong with you?_ ' look, pacing back in forth in the cramped trailer, muttering to himself about idjits and 'wasted gas money on this crazy psycho who belongs in a looney bin'.

       "I mean...really?" Sam pries. Once again, the man shrugs.

       "I think he doesn't know why he did it," Castiel supports, unhelpfully. He pauses a moment, turning toward the direction of Dean. "Should we call someone?"

       "No." Bobby barks. The Winchesters turn toward him with an incredulous look. "I got a better idea."

* * *

 

 An Officer walks cordially through the park, taking solace in the molten, cool, summer heat warming his scalp. It's nice out, he muses. Nice weather. But the strange absence of children swinging on the monkey bars or lack of abused bats cracking in the distance has him slightly on edge. The park is always a hot zone on weekends, even more so on Sundays; right after church, families and friends occupy the space for picnics. Even more popular, birthday parties.

       But not today. There's no one here, actually. Just him.

       Woodchips crack and crunch beneath his feet as he scopes out the area--round the swing set; beneath the slide; through plastic tunnels and scratchy windows--suddenly curious, if not wary. He wonders if there was an apocalypse he might have missed, if God chose him to be the last man on Earth. Nope, he remembers blood red cars cruising on the highway, men walking their dogs, and wafting aroma of hot dogs on the grill on lunch break. So what's going on then?

 _Of course_ , he face palms. Secured around the perimeter of the park--how he missed this is absolutely embarrassing--is caution tape. Close enough to the edge of the sidewalk, where at first glance, people would be repelled instantly, but far enough away that it wouldn't be noticeable to officials. So someone did this purposefully, but who? Nobody at the station told him of any crime taking place here. He knows that his chief wouldn't take pride in him contaminating a crime scene either. If it's a crime scene.

       And then he hears it.

       Quiet enough to be mistaken as a bird's chirp, but different enough to catch his attention. There, exactly on the edge of the forest. Tied to a tree.

       Oh. God.

        _**To whoever is reading this, I am the man who has committed all 20 murders in the past three weeks. You are probably wondering why I'm tied to a tree, but that doesn't matter right now. Instead, why don't you take the small package at the trunk of the tree I'm tied to. Look inside.** _

       He crouches to the ground, retrieving a pair of latex gloves.

       He picks up the package. He opens it.

       One artificial face. One wolf mask; strangely realistic. One set of teeth; real canine dentures. One needle and a blood bag.

       He continues reading the note.

_**The evidence. Your welcome.** _

       And that's it. Nothing on the back of the note, which he found tied to the man's toe. The man hangs above him, whimpering and growling, arms tied to two branches on either side, and legs tied at the ankles. If he had nails sticking through his skull and wrists, Harris could say that whoever put him there wanted to crucify him. He gapes at the man--in a wolf suit?--and pulls out his handcuffs and a radio.

* * *

 _The group_ _part ways at an intersection near the Oklahoma City limit. Bobby claps Dean on the shoulder: take care of yourself. Then Sam: take care of that knucklehead.  He waves goodbye to Castiel._

 _"He didn't say anything." Dean backtracks as they sit on the hood of his impala._ _He accepts the beer with a grateful nod._

_"What about?"_

_"_ _Hello, I was sick for three weeks. Why didn't he ask about what happened? He's usually, you know, so fatherly."_

_"Did you want him to?"_

_"_ _Not really, but,"_

_"So there's nothing to talk about."_

_"Don't you,"_

 _"_ _What? Care? About you? Course not."_

_Dean rubs a hand over his sternum, slightly winded. This isn't how it goes, how it should play out. Something's wrong. He looks to Castiel for help._

 _"_ _Cas?"_

_"What Sam says is true,"_

_"What? No. What?"_

_"We don't care about you."_

* * *

 

Dean wakes with a start in the passenger's seat of the Impala, wrists throbbing. The first thing he becomes aware of is the cool leather sticking to his cheek, then kisses of cool air frosting his nose, ringing in his ears, and finally Sam's voice. "What?" Dean asks, sitting up.

       "I said--you know what? It doesn't matter what I said."

       "Say. It doesn't matter what you say."

       "Excuse me?"

       Dean shakes off the remnants of his nightmare. It doesn't take a genius to know that Sam was asking how he was feeling moments ago. Dean just doesn't want to hear it.

       Damn nightmare.

      "Nothing. So-- Ah, flip!"

      "What? What is it?" Sam frets. He pulls the impala over, ready to administer first aid. "Your wrists? Let me see."

      "So you can measure my pulse?" Dean grits, "No."

       "Quit being stubborn."

       "No. Sam, stop. I said quit it!"

       "Dean. Just let me see!"

       "Sam! I'm warning you man: back off."

       "Oh please! Just,"

       "Wrist scratcher." Both Winchesters flinch back at Castiel's sudden appearance at the passenger's side. Dean aggressively shoves his brother back before leaning out the window. Castiel takes a step forward so that his electric blue eyes are close enough to look at them both. "That's why Dean has been sick."

       "What's why I've been sick?"

       "A Wrist Scratcher. Hold up your right hand. See?"

       Sam gasps. "Dean! What the,"

        "It's not what you think! I didn't do it." He feels offended, hurt, that Sam could actually accuse him of self-harm (unless alcoholism counts). Even after what they've been through, he could never do something like that. 

        "What exactly is a Wrist Scratcher, Cas?" Dean asks, looking curiously at his right hand, disregarding the pain momentarily. He allows the angel to take it, lifting his palm out the window and directly into the sunlight.

       "They are what you would call phantoms; the more aggressive type. But instead of haunting their prey, they settle for marking them instead--"

       "By scratching their wrists," Sam finishes.

       "Correct. It takes about three to five weeks for the marks to actually show, and during that time the host experiences a sort of virus. The disassociation, lack of appetite, slow reactions, fever, etcetera. But that's not all," Cas releases Dean's wrist. He notices the pain pinching his eyes. "Victims of a Wrist Scratcher have also reported strange nightmares, all the while feeling as if something is not right. Like the dreams they were having weren't their own."

        The car is silent for a few moments.

        "That's it?! That's what got me so sick in the head?" Dean exclaims.

        "Wow, that's...Thank you Cas. How did you find that out?" Sam asks politely.

       "I am afraid I will have to tell you another time. Heaven is calling."

       Dean feels a momentary surge of panic as Castiel steps back from the car. "Wait!" he calls. But wait for what? He has nothing to say. And yet, something nags at him. Something important that he needs to get off his chest. A simple 'thank you' would suffice, yet somehow seems strangely inappropriate. Dean thumbs his wrist absently.

Is that all they are though? Just friends? Dean shakes his head; there's only one way to find out.

       "Can you see me at the house tonight or tomorrow? Uh, you know, just to tell me how you figured it out or something? It would be useful to know so that I could put it in our dad's journal; we never heard about Wrist Scratchers before."

       "Of course," Cas nods, not exactly specifying the date of his future arrival. He disappears before either of the Winchesters can thank him again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about:  
> -suicidal thoughts  
> -internalized homophobia  
> -potential Destiel

 

 

 

> _Carry on my wayward son_
> 
> _There'll be peace when you are gone_
> 
> _Lay your weary head to rest_
> 
> _Don't you cry no more_

 

 

By the time Dean and Sam reach 'home', a cheap motel they've rented out as a temporary base, the moon has risen and a cool, summer breeze replaces dusk's place in the world. The motel, as usual, is silent save for chirping crickets and hissing cockroaches; Dean finds both insects crawling on the lamp beside his bed. He looks at them for a second, laying spread out on the mattress, hunter's jacket still fit snugly to his shoulders, and wonders if their puny lives are worth taking.

       "What are you laughing about?" Sam chirps, sauntering from the bathroom to the bed simultaneously toweling his hair off. He grows slightly wary of the hysterically manic expression on Dean's face, a quirked eyebrow being all it takes to send him into a fit of laughter. Dean tosses his head back and points to the bed lamp. "What, the lamp?" He giggles nervously.

       The marks are showing again.

       Yeah, nothin. It's stupid. _I must be really tired if I'm seriously laughing about bugs on a lightbulb._ Dean scrubs his hands over his face, as if the gesture could make all the drowsiness disappear. He feels like a flame that's lost its flicker. "Is the shower still decent?" The first time he and Sam had booked a motel on their first job had been a nightmare; cockroaches crawling everywhere, a leaky sink, coffee stains on the bed sheets. But the worst of all had really been the bathroom. As usual, Dean had wanted an early morning shower before Sam, mainly just to use up all the hot water and piss him off, but when he stepped underneath the spray Dean had a clear view of aged mold and green goo outlining the edges of the shower. It was absolutely disgusting and nearly sent him to his knees, especially after noticing more of it growing on bars of soap too. They swapped rooms after that, thankfully with a better appeal. Making fun of the bathroom's cleanliness has become a sort of inside joke now between the two of them.

        "Yeah," Sam answers, "But I could have sworn that ordinary shampoo doesn't have eight legs and hair." Of course he's only kidding, but it definitely pays for a chance to see Dean blanche.

       Dean flips him off instead. "Haha, very funny."

        "I don't even get why you're scared of spiders. I mean, we've seen _worse things_ Dean. Fuzzy little arachnids won't ever compare to what's in Dad's journal." Sitting on the bed now, bent forward and retrieving his duffel bag, Sam slathers on lotion and deodorant (Can't a man smell like lavender without being made fun of?) and dresses into a pair of basketball shorts, a grey tank to top everything off.

        As he arranges and rearranges the contents inside his bag, Sam's fingers brush over something waxy; his dad's journal rests beneath his palm like a calling card. "So, a Wrist Scratcher." He pulls it out leisurely, flutters it like a fan.

      "Yeah, I'm still trying to," Dean waves his hand carelessly, "wrap my mind around that. Cas never said why they only focus on the wrist or why they only gave me three marks, when most phantoms have 5 claws. He didn't give us a lot of detail at all."

       "Well he was obviously in a hurry. Heaven probably put him on the leash again." Dean hums in agreement. "My laptop's broken so we can't exactly look it up either." On the exterior Sam probably looks calm, sounds collected; it's a mask that he's developed, used only when he needs to feign being strong for his brother or sometimes when he needs to think. But on the inside, where all the turmoil and insecurities lay, he's a wreck. He's worried about Dean, worried that the fever was just a prelude to something even worse that'll be harder to get rid of. Even though Castiel assured them that the marks signified an end, Dean could still be suffering from after-affects, or worse, trauma. No, he _knows_ there's trauma; having a phantom's nightmares; experiencing a wormhole reality; both situations where Dean isn't in control and suffering. Not in control of his emotions, not in control of the pain, not in control of the memories--

      "Hey. What's that look for?" Dean grunts. He shifts to lay on his side, wincing slightly at the pain in his jaw and cheek where Cas knocked him out; it still hurts him to know that he actually laid his hands on Sammy, had almost shot him and stabbed him with a knife just on the edge of insanity.

       "I don't--" Sam's voice comes out whinier than expected, his nose growing three inches longer. "I'm just...you know." Dean gives him a look; his eyes are pinched tightly although he tries to hide it. 

       This makes Sam wonder when the last time he got actual sleep was, or if he even tried to. He sighs and shoves the bag back with his heel. Not long ago, about the first day of this month, Dean had tried to manipulate Sam into going back to Stanford by nearly getting him killed on a hunt to scare him off. Sam had exploded once he found out and took the nearest bus to Oklahoma, already having another case lined up. He told Dean that if he wanted him gone so badly he should have just asked instead of going out on a suicide mission. Then he said something about being along the fine line of suicidal and borderline disappointing, which, okay, was a dick move, but Sam was just so angry! But now that he thinks about it, Sam realizes that Dean simply wanted the best for him like always.

       He sighs again.

       "Do you have asthma?" Dean jokes. His right arm lays limply across his stomach, the three scratches raised red and pulsing in the lamp's glow. Though his eyes are closed, he's aware that Sammy is battling some sort of inner demon (or demons) and he can just picture the look on his face right now; brows furrowed, the corners of his lips dimpled, one side of his face hollowed in where he's certain that Sam is biting his cheek. Dean usually makes fun of him for it, says he looks like a constipated puppy stuck in a jar which usually rouses him enough to tell Dean what the Hell would be going on inside his head. But tonight, right now, as of two seconds ago, Dean can't even muster the strength to work his jaw to get the words out. He's so tired.

       "No. I am lightheaded though, probably just the shower....Dean?"

        He fell asleep.

* * *

 "Dean, you look well."

        "Really? I mean, we're only goin' to a diner." Dean glances down at his black skinny jeans and blue flannel, then bashfully realizes that Castiel is talking about his health. He clears his throat awkwardly, glancing at something else, and licks his lips. The hunter has no idea why he's nervous all of a sudden. In front of Cas, a friend who probably knows what he looks like inside out and can read his thoughts. They've been comfortable around each other for the most part, just about one year now. The angel is his best friend; Dean is his.

       "I thought we were going to discuss--"

       "We are, preferably right now actually. They're kind of having a Happy Burger Hour, so I gotta get there before it's over." He checks his watch: eight PM. Exactly one hour 'till it ends, and they still have to get Cas' information and copy it into the journal before leaving. Dean can pick out that the angel is short on time, watching as his eyes flicker anxiously around the room, shifting weight from foot to foot. "Everything okay _Up There_?"

        Castiel freezes; he forces his muscles to relax. "Yes. The usual fighting; my brothers and I aren't...."

       "Ah. The usual family drama, huh," Dean breathes absently. The second hand  _tick, tick, ticks_ scarily fast; Dean can practically feel his stomach tear itself apart, the muscles shifting so restlessly that he can feel the saliva pool inside his mouth.

       Castiel nods sadly, recalling the small talk he and Dean had in the car three weeks ago, not long after Sam left him for Oklahoma. He's glad that the case is over, even more grateful that Dean is better and up and running like normal again. It hadn't taken as much time to figure out his strange illness as he thought it would take. At least, once he noticed the marks on Dean's wrist. After that it had been simple research. No one in Heaven would help him, however, not even Gabriel who loves a good challenge; Bobby's books flicked and fluttered beneath pinched fingers. He had to read the content carefully since Dean's symptoms were simple and not at all flashy, until, _'Thank you Father_ , a book that was lazing about on the couch flew open to the exact page with what he had been looking for. By that point, research was pointless since the 'virus' the phantom gave to him would run its own course through his body; no cure. Just had to wait until the marks were exposed. That was three days ago.

       Dean and Castiel perk up as they hear Sam's keys jingling in the doorknob. He went out for a drive earlier to, 'Clear my head', and was a little surprised when Dean didn't ask questions and let him take the Impala. He's back now, having received his brother's call, hair windswept and cheeks flushed pink. He joins Dean and Castiel at the small, three chaired table placed next to the window. Castiel says his greetings; Sam says 'hey'.

       "Oh! The journal, hold on--" He pats his pockets, despite knowing the thick leather binding couldn't possibly fit in there, rising to get up.

       "Right here," Dean waves. Sam can be pretty oblivious sometimes. "'Kay Cas, we're ready. What was wrong with me?" He takes a piece of college ruled paper, pen in hand.

       Castiel starts from the beginning.

       "A Wrist Scratcher, an aggressive type of phantom, is never making a conscious decision when it picks its host. However, when they are near areas with high levels of stress, anxiety, anger, depression, angst, violence, war,--"

       "Cas, Cas."

        "Sorry. You get the point. Usually a Wrist Scratcher marks its host by accident; being startled, for example. They will lash out in self-defense."

        "Why the wrist?" Dean asks.

        Castiel hesitates a moment before looking Dean in the eye, the atmosphere suddenly tense. "Wrist Scratchers are phantoms of the suicidal. They attack the wrist because it is easier to draw blood in that area. And the three marks...The first one is never painful for the host because they never feel it. It's like a tickle. So they get angry and strike a second time; to the host they would feel a sting. And finally, the last strike is the most violent; you could imagine why." Dean knows. Most ghosts/ghouls/everything of the supernatural crave some sort of recognition, a point of contact, the chance to be seen by someone other than themselves. Being constantly ignored is like failing a math test a thousand times over; people get frustrated.

        "By the third strike, the phantom has used its energy supply and can no longer--"

      "Wait, wait. You said wrists, not wrist. Dean only has one side marked up."

      "If the phantom is capable, then it will go for the second hand as well. But the total number of scratches will never succeed six," Castiel reassures. There's a faint ringing in his ears. _No, not yet. Give me one hour._

      "Hooray for miracles," Dean grumbles. "Okay! Well, Cas, I think that's everything right? I wrote down all the symptoms and stuff in the car, so I'd say we're good." He checks his watch again: 8:15.  "Come on Sammy, I'm starving."

     

* * *

 An hour later, the Winchesters are full, sated, and happy in a dimly lit diner. They feel more content than ever, their earlier feud forgiven and forgotten. Castiel smiles along with them, genuinely happy for the first time in a while, and closes the space between he and Dean casually. His heart stops as fingers accidentally brush over his flesh; Dean continues to talk as if nothing has happened, making insulting knock-off versions of Sam's puppy face. Castiel is curious as to whether or not he felt his touch.

        "Yeah, well..."  Sam lets the end of his sentence fall, in irritation. Dean leans in mockingly.

        "That's what I thought."

       "Ass."

       "-is beautiful? Why, thank you Sam."

* * *

 "So. Time for you to go, huh?"

 

       "Sadly, yes. I feel like coming home is becoming more of a chore everyday; nobody loves," Castiel turns toward Dean, steps closer, "or shares," makes direct eye contact, "Family ties to one another are ignored. It's cold up there."

        " _We don't care about you."_

        "Hey Cas," Dean calls in a choked gasp. He pushes off from the hood of the Impala to stand directly in front of the angel, his hands shaking, heart beating a mile a minute. "Don't laugh but....Do you--do you care? About me?"

        "In what way?" Castiel had meant to hold back that question because he knows Dean would have to explain himself and then the situation would get awkward, and now Castiel will probably get punched for making him flustered.

 _In what way?_ Well, Dean isn't sure. He was hoping that Cas would just say yes and they could put this whole situation behind them and pretend the past three weeks of close interactions and bonding were just the norms of being friendly. Nothing more ( _No, nothing less_ ).

        Sam walks out the diner. Castiel snaps his fingers, freezing the setting. "I don't have much time, Dean, but to answer your question...Yes. Yes I do care about you. In fact I-I have feelings for you Dean. I've had them for a while now. We've only known each other for a year but--but, I really lo-like you!"

       "Uh," What the Hell does he say to that?!?!?!?

       "I see you as my God...because you are the only person that's bothered to guide me through my own insecurities. You teach me things, you make this vessel's heart beat to the point where it starts to hurt, you--I can't say that I love you. I have no experience in relationships." Castiel is also secretly uncomfortable with the thought of being with another man; sometimes Father's Will becomes too hard to ignore. ( _Father's Will or the Angels' Will?_  ) "But I would like to try, if you would let me."

       Dean tries his best not to sock Cas for his attempts at flirting, settling for wringing his hands instead. Castiel's confessions are slightly worrying, yet genuine in his own way. He can hear the uncomfortable tone in his voice, how he's trying to suppress some sort of issue that's bugging him. But when you put two and two together, an educated guess becomes more of an educated statement; Cas isn't comfortable being with a man. Probably because he was raised off of hatred--after all he did say that Heaven is cold--and his foundational morals lay cemented in the traditional way things are up there. The world has changed, but Castiel has never been exposed it and Dean can't fault him for that.

      Even so, as they stand below the moonlit sky, Dean contemplates an actual relationship. Castiel is always busy, Dean is always busy. When things try to kill him, Cas gets hurt. They're both stubborn. Castiel can be compromised easily.

      And yet falling into conversation with him is so _easy_.

      "I think," Dean starts, "I don't love you either. I can see that we're good partners, that we get along well, that you...lo-like me. But--I don't want to make you uncomfortable by trying to force you into a relationship. Anna and I tried it, didn't work out." _God, you're going to drive me to drink_. "So how about we experiment instead? No strings attached, no hard feelings. I don't even know if this is a one time thing or not, so. Better for both of us. What do you say?"

      Castiel doesn't hesitate. That powerful, throbbing, painful thrum of his heart has ignited again and he can feel his hands shake. "Yes," he exasperates. "Yes, let's do it."

      He snaps his fingers and the world rights again.


End file.
